When pigs fly

So, there you are, finally ready to take the trip of a lifetime. You pried one eye open at 3 a.m. to drag yourself to the airport before dawn, arriving two hours early to check your bags, trek past checkpoints, surrender your Skechers and hope the orangutans groping your laptop are gentler than they look.

Finally, you make it to the gate, and your plane is waiting. That’s good, because some airlines can misplace a $50 million plane long before they get around to your luggage. But not today. Your prayers were answered, and you’re ready to board.

You can breathe a sigh of relief as your migraine subsides. One more aisle to trudge before you plop into your designated seat and buckle up. With luck, that bodybuilder chomping the bean burrito and the mom with her screaming twins will keep walking past your row—pretty please, keep walking.

They do. Life is good until you meet the turkey that booked the seat next to you.

Yes, turkey—and not the human kind. For the next six hours, you’ll be sharing the friendly skies with the star of Thanksgiving dinner. Your new feathered friend is a registered Emotional Support Animal. And, unlike us, it flies free.

The rules for Emotional Support Animals, or ESAs, are pretty simple. Just get a letter from your mental health professional—or fork over $190 to get one online—that says you might implode if friendly feathers, scales or fur aren’t within petting distance. Some folks truly need them, while others just don’t trust their pets to cargo. (Who does?)

Here’s the problem. We’re not talking about superbly trained service dogs that can relieve post-traumatic stress, pull wheelchairs or detect seizures for disabled handlers. ESAs require an entirely different kind of training: None.

That’s right. None. Astute bureaucrats devised regulations that allow untrained beasts—with beaks, teeth, hooves and/or claws intact—to sit inches away from total strangers in an airborne sardine can that’s subject to turbulence. The poor, frazzled pets could use their own support animals.

Last year, hundreds of thousands of ESAs boarded airplanes. They came in all flavors, including iguana, potbellied pig, tortoise, parrot and miniature horse. If the pet fits in your lap, it can probably fly. (Don’t ask me how a horse did that.)

Over the years, my pet menagerie has included some amazing parrots, but they wouldn’t make good passengers. For one thing, parrots like to clear their pipes every 10 minutes or so. According to my calculations: six potty breaks an hour, multiplied by a six-hour flight time, plus 45 minutes at baggage claim, 30 minutes leaving the airport and two hours in a rental car—wait, I’m doing the math—oh, yeah, that’s a lot of parrot goop.

Parrots are also fond of sparkly things. They can dismantle an earring faster than any jeweler alive and aren’t fussy about whose ear it’s on. As a rule, I never argue with a bird that can crack walnuts with its beak, so leave the bling home, just in case you’ll be sitting next to a cockatoo.

The worst thing for me would be getting stuck next to an emotional-support cat. Just drop the oxygen masks now, because I’ll be a hive covered mucus factory before the plane leaves the gate.

Give me turkey—or twins—any day.

JAN A. IGOEis an avid animal addict who would love to meet your Rottweiler, pig, possum, llama, goat or other ESA at sea level. Don’t be shy. Drop your muzzle, and join the fun at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.